


set me on fire

by chocobos



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, F/M, M/M, sort of, switching POVs, unemployment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:47:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/pseuds/chocobos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard gets fired. And then he meets Jim--begrudgingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	set me on fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weepingnaiad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/gifts).



> Oh, man. I am so spectacularly late with this. This was meant to be posted two weeks ago for the Spring Fling challenge over at kirk_mccoy and...I am just finishing it now. I am so so so so so so so so so sorry about that! This fic fought me the entire time that I wrote it, and I can only hope my recipient likes it as much as I liked her prompt(s)!
> 
> This was written for weepingnaiad for her prompt 'modern day!au--fire.' I know you probably wanted something a little angstier, but I hope you can enjoy this anyway.
> 
> This would not have gotten written without Jo or Cal's help. Thank you so much for listening to me rant and rave about writing and then finally kicking my ass into gear. ♥
> 
> Sort of but not really beta'd by Cal. Thank you for putting up with my run-on sentences :P

Leonard hates meetings.

 

Leonard hates meetings, and he hates his damn job. He would like nothing more than to go home and crash on his shitty couch in his shitty apartment and get drunk off of the shitty whiskey sitting in his cabinets--he can’t afford to buy the good stuff, anyway, and it’s not like he has a multitude of opportunities to drink anymore, between the near constant representative meetings and the weekend outings with his daughter--but, he can’t. He’s stuck at work, at the job he hates, and he’s regrettably sober. Incredibly so.

 

He’s not complaining about his daughter, though. That’s the one part of his life that doesn’t irrevocably suck.

 

Maybe meetings wouldn’t be so bad, if he had a job he actually enjoyed (he does not, in any way, shape, or form enjoy his job; his job is fucking terrible). But his boss has been up his ass lately about his sales. He doesn’t even make half as much as the other representatives--Leonard barely makes enough to qualify as a damn salesman for this company.

 

Leonard is man enough to admit that’s mostly because he just doesn’t care. About his job, he means.

 

He’s not supposed to be doing this--pharmaceutical sales. He’s not cut out to be a salesman, doesn’t have the cunning ability to sell a product he doesn’t believe in (they have to do that a lot, and as an aspiring doctor with a strict ethical code, he’s realized just how uncut he is for it), and his charm could ‘use some damn good work, McCoy.’

 

That’s what his boss says, at least.

 

His boss is a snake.

 

Leonard does not like his boss. He’s man enough to admit that, too.

 

“McCoy,” Marcus corners him before he can sneak out of the room like he usually does, and Leonard just stares back at him impassively.

 

The only thing Leonard hates more than meetings is confrontation. And shitty booze.

 

Shitty booze is just fucking disgraceful. He’s from the south; he knows his liquor.

  
  
  
  


“Marcus,” Leonard grunts.

 

“Can I have a word with you?” Marcus fixes him with a look--a look that Leonard has seen only two times, and that was when Chapel got let go, and when there was an off-duty car accident that resulted in Olson’s (a sub-par salesman) death. Leonard can’t help the blind panic that builds like a fucking wall at the bottom of his stomach, and he knows what’s coming, he knows, and he hates his job, more than he likes to think about most days, but that doesn’t mean he wants to lose it, either.

 

“Sure,” he says, voice even, and sure, because Marcus is a vulture.

 

He preys on the weak.

 

Leonard is miserable and angry and bitter, but he’s not weak.

 

*

 

“What’d you want to talk about, ‘hen?” He asks, a few minutes later after Marcus has lead him into his office and pointedly closed the door.

 

“Leonard,” Marcus starts, folding his hands out on the desk. Marcus has never called Leonard, well, Leonard. His entire body tenses, waiting for it. It’s written all over his face, has been since the meeting, now that Leonard thinks of it, and even though the blow is going to render him, essentially, helpless, and fucking jobless, Leonard just wants to get this over with.

 

So he can go home.

 

And get drunk.

 

Really drunk.

 

“You’re a good employee,” Leonard snorts, unable to stop the noise, even if he wanted to, and opens his mouth to cut him off. Marcus holds out a finger. “I’m not done yet. You’re a good employee. You have a lot of heart, and I can appreciate that, I do--even though, I know we haven’t--we haven’t been on the best of terms, lately, or well, at all, actually, not since Car--anyway. You’re a good employee, but a shitty salesman, and I let you slide for too long, way longer than I should have, and well, it’s time that I let you go, son.”

 

Leonard blinks.

 

“So,” he drawls. “You’re firing me.”

 

“Don’t think of it as a firing,” Marcus says with a smirk. Leonard can feel his blood boil beneath his skin. “Think of it as an opportunity. You’ve always been too good for this, Leonard. You know it, I know it, hell, the entire damn company knows it. This has always been a temporary job, for you.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I need to lose it,” Leonard mumbles, because he doesn’t.

 

He went to medical school, for Jesus sake, he’s only here because it’s the only job low enough on the totem pole that will give him a decent pay but won’t make him look utterly ridiculous when people find out he’s a certified doctor (Marcus had laughed at him the first time he showed up in his office, jet lagged from the flight over and irritable, but Leonard was desperate for work, and Marcus was desperate for workers, so they ignored how unfit he was for pharmaceutical sales and tried to make it work.

 

Leonard’s not really sure if it ever did).

 

“I can offer you some references,” Marcus says, and holds out a thin folder. “Good luck, Leonard. Shut the door on your way out,” he finishes off, and then waves at him in clear dismissal.

 

*

 

The first thing Leonard does, of course, is call Christine.

 

“I got fired,” Leonard says in greeting, because it’s Christine, and Christine understands Marcus’ deplorable tactics more than anyone.

 

Christine is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, finally, her voice is soft. “Leo,” she starts. Leonard doesn’t like that tone. Leonard has never liked that tone. “You know it was bound to happen, sometime.”

 

“I know,” Leonard says. He did. “I can’t afford to be broke right now. Not with Sulu, and certainly not with Jo. I just got the judge to grant me weekend visitation rights, Christine. I can’t lose her, now.”

 

“I know, you can’t,” Christine says, and there’s a slamming of pots and pans and cabinet drawers. “And you won’t. You’ll find a job, Leonard. You’re too qualified not to.”

 

Leonard scoffs. “Right,” he says.

 

Christine rolls her eyes. Leonard knows; he can practically feel her exasperation. “Come over, later,” Christine offers. “I’ll make your favorite.”

 

And Leonard, who has never been able to resist Christine Chapel’s country cooking on a good day, agrees, because at least she won’t make him talk about it.

 

Well, at least not until after dinner, anyway.

 

*

 

Jim looks at him, and then looks at Spock, raising a speculative eyebrow. “Has he ordered anything yet?” Jim asks, pointing, sort of rudely, to the guy nestled in the corner.

 

There are tired lines around his eyes. Jim would guess he probably hasn’t slept all that much, if at all, recently, and his suit is rumpled haphazardly, like throughout the day he just got too lazy to bother caring about how it looked anymore--not that Jim exactly blames him for that or anything, because, ugh, suits, but the guy has probably (definitely) seen better days.

 

Not that Jim cares, or anything, but he’s observational. It’s one of his many skills, really.

 

“No,” Spock says, curt.

 

“Is he going to order something?” Jim asks.

 

“Logically, I would hope so.” There is nothing Spock hates more than loiterers. Well, nothing more than dirty loiterers, but, semantics.

 

He can see the looks Spock throws in the guy’s direction when he thinks no one is watching him, and he’s tense, robotic, almost--like the way he was when Jim first roomed with him in college sophomore year, and had spent a tedious and frustrating seven months trying (and failing) to get him to come out of his shell--with the way he’s cleaning the espresso machine. Jim would laugh if he didn’t think Spock would ream him for it.

 

He walks over and grabs the largest cup they have, because Pike won’t care, and anyway, Jim will just cover the cost later, and prepares a black coffee. He grabs a couple of napkins and at the last minute decides to grab one of the blueberry muffins Uhura brought out minutes before, because they’re disgustingly delicious, and he hasn’t met a single person who hasn’t fallen for them, yet.

 

He walks over and grabs the largest cup they have, because Pike won’t care, and anyway, Jim will just cover the cost later. He prepares it black, since he’s not sure how the guy likes it, and he doesn’t look like he can take a-coffee-situation, at least not right now. Jim also grabs a couple of napkins and at the last minute he decides to grab one of the blueberry muffins Uhura brought out minutes before, because they’re disgustingly delicious.

 

He hasn’t met a single person who hasn’t fallen for them (or Uhura, now that he thinks about it) yet.

 

It’s quite unfair.

 

They’re still sweetly warm, even through the napkin Jim gloves he shoved on at the last moment to avoid some germ-to-germ meetings that he’d rather not have happen , and he makes a conscious mental note to grab one when Spock isn’t there to chide him for it.

 

“I’m going in,” Jim says, mostly more to himself than to Spock.

 

“That’s against company policy, Jim,” Spock points out.

 

Jim resists the very real urge to roll his eyes, because he’s not actually sixteen anymore, and shrugs. “Pike isn’t going to care,” Jim says, and he won’t. Pike latches on to broken people like a fucking leech--really, it’s sort of disgusting--and doesn’t let them go until they’re somewhat whole again. Or, at least until they can play somewhat who convincingly.

 

What Jim is trying to say here, is, that Pike will understand. Possibly more than anyone.

 

Pike probably would’ve already done this, if he was actually here.

 

“Jim--”

 

“I’ll pay for it, okay?” Jim says, patting Spock on the shoulder--and pretends he doesn’t notice when Spock cringers away from his touch; it just makes Spock more uncomfortable than he already obviously is, so Jim indulges him--and walks over to the guy.

 

His shoulders are even more hunched than before, his hair standing up in irregular (and adorable, fuck him) tufts on his head, somehow even more disheveled than his suit, and Jim bites his lips on a particularly ridiculous smile. The last thing Jim needs to develop some crush on a grumpy patron. He wills himself to calm the hell down, and sighs. “Hey,” he says, dropping unceremoniously into the seat across from the man.

 

The guy looks up with a pointedly raised eyebrow--they are simultaneously somehow both unimpressed and grumpy at the same time. Jim dutifully ignores the sharp sting of jealousy that goes straight through his chest. “Can I help you?” There’s a subtle southern drawl to his voice that hits somewhere deep within Jim, cuts through him like a knife in the best way. But, he ignores that (he’s pretty sure defiling a first-time customer in the front of all of his regular customers is a thing that Pike most definitely will frown upon, and it’s also a thing that Jim would not be able to keep from him for too long; his customers are nosey and Pike has them all wrapped around his finger, really), too.

 

Jim Kirk is the Master Ignorer.

 

He should win a medal for it, seriously.

 

“Nah,” Jim says, easily enough. He waves him off and shoves the coffee and muffin in his face. “Here,” he finishes, before he can take them both back and go behind the counter to hide.

 

“I didn’t order these.”

 

“No,” Jim agrees. “You didn’t. But now you have them, anyway.”

 

The guy looks like he’s about to complain about it, so Jim cuts him off hastily. “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, so I just gave it to you black. There’s creamer and sugar on that counter over there--” Jim waves in the direction of said counter, and then forces himself to to get out of the chair. “If you need anything else, I’ll be behind the front counter,” he makes a move to get away.

 

He doesn’t get very far, before a voice stops him,

 

“I don’t need your freebies, kid,” The man says.

 

“Look,” Jim says, turning around, unable to keep himself from leaning forward just slightly. He can’t tell what color the man’s eyes are, but they’re seriously distracting. “You look like you’ve had enough day. Probably a few rough weeks,” Jim lowers his voice, then, because by the angle of Spock’s head, he can tell he’s listening in, or that at least he’s trying to, and Jim really doesn’t want him to overhear this, at least. “I, as a coffeeshop barista, understands bad days, okay? And, well, Spock, the assistant manager, doesn’t exactly appreciate loiterers--that’s putting it lightly. He’s going to kick you out in about thirty seconds if you don’t order something, so just take the damn coffee. And the muffin. Cause they’re delicious.”

 

He’s silent for a long time, look at Jim, almost like a challenge. Jim just stares back at him, calmly and coolly, ignoring the frantic beating of his heart in his chest.

 

The guy sniffs the muffin, eventually, and grimaces at Jim. “I don’t even like blueberries.”

 

Jim smiles. “You’ll like these.”

 

*

 

When the man throws his trash out, coffee cup in hand, he notices the muffin nowhere in sight, and smirks.

 

Doesn’t like blueberries his ass.

 

*

 

“Don’t even try it, Spock,” Jim warns, because Spock has that look on his face that says he’s going to say something, something undoubtedly logical and biting, and well, Jim really doesn’t want to hear it right now.

 

Jim never wants to hear it, but that’s besides the point.

 

Spock open and closes his mouth a few times before closing it, and raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t even think of it, Jim.”

 

Jim narrows his eyes. “I’m sure,” he bites back, disbelieving--Jim has long since learned the art of reading the particular angle of Spock’s eyebrows at any given time, and right now they’re telling him he’s full of shit--and then goes to clean the tables in the lobby.

 

*

 

Leonard manages to lock himself in his room for three days with minimal social interaction before Sulu finally pounds on his door, complaining about the rank smell of Southern Old Men and how his ‘misery’ is cutting into his sex life. Leonard doesn’t think he could roll his eyes harder than he does at the peeling ceiling of his room, but he always manages to surprise himself, so maybe he could.

 

“Well,” Leonard drawls, through the door. “Maybe you should go fondle your underage boyfriend somewhere else? Somewhere, preferably, that is not in this apartment. I’m a grown ass man, Sulu.”

 

“You’re not having sex with him,” Sulu points out, “I am.”

 

“Thank the lord for that,” Bones mutters, and burrows further into the blankets.

 

He barely manages to close his eyes before the door slams open with an impatient looking Sulu staring back at him incredulously. Leonard fixes him with an impassive stare, and tries to ignore the feeling of dread quickly gathering at the bottom of his stomach.

 

Sulu, for the most part, is a pretty good roommate--when he’s not fucking his underage boyfriend loudly in his room, or on the couch, or that god awful time Leonard had come home from work to find them exchanging bodily fluids on the fucking kitchen counter--he’s clean, and he doesn’t leave the apartment a mess, usually. He doesn’t even touch Leonard’s liquor, either (his last roommate, Scotty, well--he’d walked in on him sprawled out on the floor of his old apartment back in Georgia, stark-naked with various bottles of alcohol (most of them being Leonard’s) scattered around him; Scotty was a good friend, but a shitty roommate).

 

Sulu, being the good roommate that he is, knows not to encroach on Bones’ personal space. He knows not to enter Leonard’s room when he’s there, especially not even when he’s in it, and he knows that anything that falls under the ‘Owned by Leonard McCoy--Even Remotely’ category is a no-touch zone.

 

He’s only barged into the room once before, and that was when Chekov had broken his ankle after he had fallen off of the table at a weird angle--Leonard didn’t ask, and he was never going to--and they’d needed a doctor’s (or a seriously bastardized excuse for one) opinion on whether or not it was safe to continue in the acts that had caused said fracture.

 

Seriously. Leonard was never asking.

 

“You need to shower,” Sulu says, his nose scrunching up in distaste as he pushes himself into the room.

 

Leonard grunts in protest, and turns his head to glare at him. “Why are you in here? You’re not supposed to be in here. This is my private room. That you do not enter. It was in the agreement,”

 

Sulu pointedly ignores him, and starts going through Leonard’s drawers. “Like I said, you need to shower. You smell like death.”

 

“I can shower without you meddling in my things,” Leonard snaps, and then hastily sits up.

 

“You obviously can’t,” argues Sulu, “Or else you would’ve done so already. You’re moping, Leonard. You don’t mope. You complain loudly and violently and drink yourself into a stupor.”

 

“That’s nice,” Leonard grumps, and then kicks out one of his legs, though it misses Sulu by a fucking mile. “Now get out.”

 

Sulu looks at him for a while, and whatever he’s searching for he must find, because eventually he raises his hand in a defensive gesture and fixes Leonard with a look. “Fine. But, if you’re not out of this room in thirty minutes--if you’re not out of this apartment in thirty minutes, I will come in here and release wrath on your existence, McCoy. Wrath. On your existence.”

 

“Don’t have sex with your boyfriend on my bed,” Leonard growls. He grabs a towel, because he really does smell, and before it was easy to live with as long as he didn’t acknowledge it too much, but now that Sulu has pointed it out, it’s suffocating him. “Dont’ have sex with your boyfriend on my chair. Or in our living room. Or in the kitchen. Again. Hell, don’t even have sex in the apartment. Why,” Leonard glares at him intensely. “Are you even having sex with your underaged boyfriend in our apartment? That’s incredibly unsanitary.”

 

“Just shower, Leonard, jesus,” Sulu says, looking completely exasperated, and shuts the door behind him.

 

Leonard mutters to himself about finding a new roommate, but knows he’ll never go through with it--he’s lucky he even has Sulu. He could be stuck with someone like Chekov, Christ.

 

*

The coffee shop is bustling with activity when Leonard walks in.

 

He didn’t bother the first time with really looking around the place, because he was irritated and angry. He had only stopped in the coffee shop to begin with to find the kind of piece of mind that would grant him the power to not have a fit when he got home three hours too early to deal with Sulu’s questions.

 

It’s quaint, a tiny shop nestled in the heart of Los Angeles, and while Leonard has never really liked it much, here, he likes it here.

 

“Back again so soon, huh?” The same kid from before is grinning wide and cocky at him, and Leonard scowls at his mouth before meeting the kid’s impossibly blue eyes.

 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” as far as comebacks go, it’s pretty weak, but Leonard just spent the last three days in bed, with no coffee and he’s jobless. It’s allotted, he thinks.

 

Leonard squints at the name tag he’s wearing and sees his name is Jim.

 

“Can I order my coffee now, Jim?” Leonard asks, dryly.

 

Jim blinks, surprised. “What?”

 

“Coffee,” Leonard grunts, and when Jim makes no move to step aside to let him through, he just steps around him.

 

He hides his smirk in the back of his hand when Jim fumbles toward the counter gracelessly to fill his order.

 

*

 

Leonard doesn’t find it amusing, and he absolutely does not find it adorable, either--his daughter is adorable. Jim, not so much.

 

*

 

He doesn’t stay, because it’s a Thursday, which means he’s picking Jo up from the bus station.

 

He can feel Jim’s eyes on his back as he leaves, and pointedly ignores it.

 

*

 

Jim watches him leave and sighs.

 

“You totally wrote on his cup, didn’t you?” Uhura asks.

 

Jim jumps, because shit, Uhura literally has the worst timing, and it only makes it worse that he knows she does it on purpose.

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“You did.”

 

“How do you know that, anyway?”

 

“There are marker smudges on your fingers, Jim,” Uhura chirps, helpfully, instead of saying the alternative, which is ‘I’ve seen you do this before and I know what it looks like’  because that sounds cheap. She lays a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“Nope,” Jim says, shaking his head, because no. “That won’t be necessary. That will never be necessary.”

 

Uhura smirks, like she likes seeing him squirm--and yeah, okay, she kind of does. “Good. Now get back to work,” she presses a kiss to his cheek, though, so Jim doesn’t really mind the order.

 

*

 

They’re at the park when Joanna leans over and grasps his wrist tightly.

 

He looks at her.

 

“Jo?” He questions.

 

“Don’t throw that away,” she says, and pulls Leonard’s arm away from where he was about to throw out the empty cup.

 

“Why?”

 

“It has writing on it, daddy,” Joanna says, carefully plucking the cup from his grip and Leonard stares.

 

There is a--

 

There’s a cat on his cup, drawn in (horribly) with sharpie marker.

 

There is a cat drawn on his coffee cup and it’s grumpy.

 

Leonard has no idea how it got there.

 

He turns to her, because there’s only one explanation, and he’s looking right at her, now. “Did you draw a cat on my cup?”

 

Joanna looks exasperated. “No, daddy.”

 

“Then who did?”

 

“Probably whoever made your coffee,” she answers, smartly, and Leonard scowls at her.

 

“Jo,” he says, warningly.

 

“Sorry,” she says unapologetically, eyes bright and grin wide. He doesn’t even try to hold back the sigh. “Do you really not know who that is? That’s Tard!”

 

“Joanna,” he snaps, “Language!”

 

“No, dad, that’s her name. Tardar Sauce? Grumpy cat aka Tard?” Jo offers, and when Leonard just stares at her blankly--seriously, what creature has his daughter evolved into--she looks disappointed. “You have the internet. You should use it.”

 

“How do you even know about it?”

 

Jo rolls her eyes, and Leonard’s narrow in response. “Mom got me a iPhone for my birthday.”

 

“Of course she did,” Leonard says, because he’s not entirely convinced his ex-wife isn’t out to get him. Through purchasing their young daughter completely unnecessary electronics.

 

*

 

“Have you heard of grumpy cat?” Leonard asks Sulu, a few days later.

 

“Who hasn’t?” Sulu quips back with a shrug. “Pavel’s obsessed with her. I’m pretty sure he follows her blog more religiously than he follows porn. And he’s sev--”

 

“He’s seventeen, I get it, man,” Leonard grumbles, “I’m still ignoring the fact that you’re actually dating him.”

 

It’s not that Leonard doesn’t approve, not exactly. Pavel’s a nice young guy. He’s sweet and attentive (Leonard knows this, but doesn’t want to; it’s one of perks of living with a young roommate who shares too much when he’s plastered) and is ridiculously--seriously, it’s aggravating, a seventeen-year-old kid is smarter than him--intelligent, but he’s also young. So, it’s not like Leonard doesn’t like the person who makes his roommate somewhat bearable, but he’d just rather not live in the damn apartment where all of their illicit sex acts happen.

 

Leonard really doesn’t want to deal with that.

 

Sulu sighs. “And I’m ignoring you ignoring it.”

 

“Go ignore it somewhere else. Quietly.”  

 

They both don’t mention how Leonard was the one who dragged him in here in the first place, and he goes.

 

*

 

Jim’s plating the cookies Uhura just took out of the oven when the bell over the door chimes and he sees the grumpy man walk in again.

 

His shoulders are slumped again, and he still doesn’t look like he’s slept very much, but at least his hair isn’t sticking up in messy puffs on the top of his head, and his clothes this time, at least, look like they’ve been ironed (not that Jim is much better, with the mocha espresso currently decorating the entirety of his apron, but it comes with the territory, here).

 

“Look,” Jim says, brightly, nudging Spock’s shoulder. “It’s your favorite customer.”

 

Spock stares sourly in the man’s general direction, and fixes Jim with a look. “Make sure he orders something this time,” he says tightly, and then disappears into the back.

 

Jim shrugs, and turns back to the man from before, and plasters a smile on his face. “Back for more?”

 

The guy narrows his eyes, obviously annoyed--not that it fazes Jim or anything, but it’s sort of adorable--and huffs. “What was that thing you drew on my cup?”

 

Jim raises an eyebrow. “A cat?”

 

“Obviously,” he drawls. “Why?”

 

Jim shrugs. “You looked like you were having a bad day, that’s all,” Jim says, because it’s the truth, and the guy obviously isn’t going to settle for anything less. Also, Jim is sort of a horrible liar, it’s all kinds of deplorable. “Was that a good enough reason for you....?” Jim trails off, looking for a name.

 

“Leonard,” the guy blurts out, his eyebrows twitching in a way that Jim takes for not meaning to have spoke at all.

 

He counts it as a win.

 

“Leonard,” Jim says, testing the weight of his name on his tongue. “Well, Leonard. Don’t come in here next time looking all dejected and puppy-dog like, and maybe unsuspecting baristas won’t draw cats all over your cup.”

 

Leonard sighs, loud and put-upon, before his eyes travel to the menu hanging above Jim’s head. “I lost my job.”

 

“Ah,” Jim says. “Go find a new one, then.”

 

“Look,” Leonard starts, “It’s not as easy as you think it is, kid.”

 

Jim laughs. “It’s pretty damn simple, man. Just go out there and apply for some jobs. If you’re meant to get hired, then you’ll get hired. It’s about putting yourself out there.”

 

“It’s not that ‘simple’,” Leonard breaks out the air quotations and everything, and it takes every ounce of self-control in Jim (which isn’t much, if he’s being honest, here; he’s always been pretty compulsive) not to lean over the counter and pinch his cheeks. “I’m a doctor.”

 

Jim whistles. “You got fired from a hospital?”

 

“No,” Leonard says, reluctantly. “I got fired from being a pharmaceutical salesman. For being overqualified.”

 

Jim smirks. “Are you sure it wasn’t because of your sparkling personality?”

 

“Hilarious,” Leonard says, and the slope of his eyebrows say he finds it anything but.

 

Jim licks his lips. “So, why aren’t you applying for hospitals, then? Or have you not completed your residency, yet.”

 

Leonard blinks, surprised, and grunts, “You know what a residency is.”  

 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Jim scowls. “I’m not actually an idiot.”

 

There’s a retort on the tip of his tongue, but then Uhura’s voice is booming from the back. “I don’t hear any ordering, Kirk!”

 

“You’re going to order something, right?” Jim says, because Spock will actually kick Leonard out if he doesn’t, much to Jim’s (loud) disapproval.

 

“I was planning to,” Leonard answers.

 

He orders.

 

*

 

Leonard learns about an open position at a hospital a couple of towns over through Christine--she emails him constantly until he gets so annoyed that he opens the actual file, and

 

Leonard learns about an open position at a hospital a couple of towns over through Christine--she emails him constantly until he gets so annoyed by the constant ringing and vibrating on his phone (he still cannot figure how to silence the damn thing) that he opens the actual file, and, well--

 

It seems promising. It’s only a twenty minute drive from his apartment, and with the hours they’re hiring for, he wouldn’t get stuck in traffic, and, oh, right, he’d be a damn doctor again.

 

He begrudgingly prints out the required paperwork and ignores the first seven times Christine calls him to yell at him in excitement for finally getting his shit together again.

 

*

 

Leonard gets the interview.

 

He’s so beside himself that he doesn’t even bat an eyelash when Jo asks him for his credit card to buy more apps on her iPhone, just hands it over with a (truly ridiculous) smile--even Jo comments on it--and says, “None of that Farmville crap, now. We can go back down to Georgia for the summer and you can learn the real thing.”

 

*

 

“You were right.”

 

Jim looks up from wiping the counters, and sees Leonard. He can’t help the smug smirk that stretches his lips wide, or the pounding in his chest.

 

Jim looks up from wiping the counters, and sees Leonard looking at him, slightly bewildered. He can’t help the smug smirk that stretches his lips wide--he feeds off of compliments to sate his ego, sue him--or the pounding in his chest, but Leonard doesn’t seem to notice, or care, anyway. “Oh?” Jim says, throwing the rag down into the bin beneath the counter. “What was I right about this time?”

 

“The job,” he says. “About applying for jobs, taking risks,” he clarifies, waving a sun-tanned hand, most likely unconsciously. “I got an interview.”

 

“Told you,” Jim says, and when Leonard’s expression starts to darken, playfully, he shakes his head. “Don’t even, Bones. I totally earned all ‘I told you so’ rights the moment you walked said that.”

 

“Bones?”

 

“Yeah,” Jim nods. “Since you’re going to be a doctor and everything.”

 

“It’s not set in stone, yet,” Leonard grumbles, because he’s a grumbly grumbler who grumbles, apparently.

 

Jim doesn’t know why he finds that as attractive as he does, but it makes a genuine smile curl his lips.

 

“You will.”

 

*

 

It isn’t even until Leonard sits down on the seedy couch in his apartment--he doesn’t even want to count the amount of times he’s come in and seen Sulu and Chekov on the couch, that definitely wouldn’t be healthy for his already questionable sanity--that he sees the number scrawled messily on his cup, black ink stark against it. He can’t stop himself from tracing along it with his thumb as he bites back a laugh, and it isn’t until hours later that he finally gets the nerve to program the number into his phone.

 

And it may take him awhile, because he’s still a little unsure, about Jim, and about relationships in general, unsure on what exactly he truly wants, but in the silence of his apartment on that shitty couch, he vows he’ll try.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song of the same title by Bella Ferraro.
> 
> I may or may not turn this into a series. If I do, I probably won't write on it for a while because I have other challenge fics and auction fics to finish, but be on the look out for them if you're interested ♥


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